Of No Nation
by Silver Winged Duck
Summary: What do you fight for when you have no country? No flag to salute, and no anthem to sing? When a young pilot is thrust into the middle of the Lighthouse War, a war she doesn't care about, these are the questions she must answer.
1. The Big Day

_Two planes soared over the sparkling ocean, the water glistening in the bright midday sun. The_ _planes, a pair of Fulcrums, were out on a routine patrol, looking for an enemy that didn't exist. If either pilot looked out their cockpit, the dazzling ocean would give way to towers rising up to the clouds, the skyscrapers of Farbanti. It was peaceful, dreamlike and picturesque._

_But then suddenly the clouds rolled in. Daylight turned to murky darkness as the storm began to lash the planes with lightning, thunder drowning out the sounds of their engines. Hurriedly, the lead plane turned away and headed back towards the sunny skies behind them, the second plane close behind. However, the storm was not about to let it's prey escape so easily._

_With an angry howl, wind buffering the jets so bad the pilots had to fight for control, a bolt of bright light smashed into the second Fulcrum. The aircraft lost power, and began tumbling helplessly towards the thrashing waves below. The pilot desperately yanked at the ejection handles to no avail, and could only watch as the plane dived closer and closer to the darkness that reached out to grasp them_…

"Thomasin!"

I awoke with a start, sweat glistening on my skin. I struggled to catch my breath, panting as my heart hammered in my chest before the lights were flicked on to blind me. As soon as my vision cleared, I saw my roommate by my side, her brown hair disheveled and her brow creased with worry.

"Tom, it's me, you're okay." She soothed, her cold hands clasping my own hot and clammy ones. "Damn, you were really thrashing about, another nightmare?"

I nodded, my breathing slowly returning to normal. Another nightmare, the same nightmare that often plagued my dreams and always ended with up with me in a hot panic and Erica bringing me back to reality. I took a deep breath, slowly releasing it and willing my heart to slow down.

"Thanks." I whisper meekly.

Erica smiled, patting me on the shoulder as she stood. "Anytime. You want me to get you a blanket? Or maybe tuck you back in and read you a story?"

"I think I'll live." The grin came naturally, Erica knew exactly how to cheer people up. I pushed her away, looking over to see the neon green light of my alarm clock glowing 02:54. At least I could still get three hours sleep, if I was lucky.

My roommate padded barefoot back across the two man room to her own bed. "Big day tomorrow. Better get some sleep if you can." She rolled gracefully back under the covers, switching the light off as she did. "Goodnight Vampire."

I settled back down, flipping the pillow to the cool side. "Night, Brownie."

* * *

The big day was finally here, and despite the excited chatter over breakfast I could only focus on keeping heavy eyes open and forcing the excuse for scrambled eggs and hash brown down my throat. Brownie cast me a concerned look, but thankfully before she could say anything she was caught up in a debate about the best tactics to use in the upcoming sortie.

"...then all I gotta do is hit the brakes, let him overshoot me and boom. I win." Benjamin 'Sparky' Westland, the course's blond haired motormouth could easily be heard above the rest.

"This isn't _Top Gun_ dumbass." Brownie immediately shot him down. "If he's behind you then you're dead."

"So what about you, Vampire?" Sparky turned his attention to me. "What's your plan?"

I washed the remains of the over-oiled eggs down with orange juice as the older man waited impatiently for my answer. "Get in, survive, get out." I replied simply. I wasn't a woman of many words, in fact I preferred not to talk at all. However, not talking was impossible around someone like Sparky.

"That's boring. You're not even going to try to win?" Someone else pipped up, Manbat they called him. It had taken all of three seconds to decide his callsign, given his actual name was Wayne Bruce.

I shrugged, and that was that. The conversation shifted across the table where they discussed if diving out of the clouds was a viable option. But as usual the plan was dismissed in favour of someone else's idea. "Man, your head's already too far in the clouds…"

By the time our group reached Sand Island's hot and stuffy briefing room the debate had turned into a heated argument between Sparky and the course's other loudmouth, Earthquake. He wasn't called Earthquake because of his size, in fact the guy was skinnier than I was. He was appropriately named for his unearthly snoring that often led to his unlucky roommate moving to a room much further down the corridor and sleeping on someone's floor. So obviously, that unfortunate pilot was called Nomad. The 'discussion' was ready to boil over to a most certainly one way physical conversation before the flight operations officer came out and hushed the room with a single cough.

And so for the next half an hour, I struggled to keep my eyes from closing as he droned on about weather conditions, the hard deck, sortie times and the rules of engagement. As hard as I tried to concentrate, my mind kept returning to the nightmare that had kept me awake since three that morning. The peaceful skies, the lightning, the pilot helpless as the plane plummeted towards thrashing waves below.

"...now as you all know, this is Advanced Recruit Combat Training Course Week One Consolidation." The officer was speaking, his boring voice a drone in my ears but I forced myself to listen. "This involves a one on one engagement with an instructor, your objective is to get into a good kill position like you've been shown, or disengage and escape..."

I caught Manbat looking over at me as the officer spoke. I shrugged in response. I knew that all the other recruits wanted the kill, but there was one lesson I'd taken in above all others during my training here and back home. Survival is just as important as getting the kill. It was a point I was eager to show, what better way than to go for a disengagement during the first consolidation?

"...you will face off against the 333rd Aggressor Squadron flying their MiG-21s. The instructors will observe from the air and as always, the data from your aircraft will be downloaded and analysed for individual and group debriefs…"

As we were dismissed for a morning of preparation and revision, Brownie pulled me aside. I felt a flash of irritation which I quickly shunned aside. I knew she cared, but I didn't like the attention. "Hey," She said, her voice matching her concerned expression. "You okay? You look spaced out."

I smiled. "I'm fine." A lie, and Brownie probably knew. Masking my tired eyes behind the reflective aviators every hotshot pilot wore, my gaze moved from the taller girl to the gaggle of recruits continuing the debate from breakfast as they headed towards the beach. "Just a little jaded."

Brownie nodded, I could tell she didn't believe me but she knew better than to push for answers and for that I was grateful. "We're all heading to the beach for some revision." The last word was met with air quotation marks. "You wanna come?"

"Absolutely not." They didn't call me Vampire for my long black hair. My reluctance to spend any longer than necessary in the bright hot rays had become a kind of joke, yesterday had been the hottest day so far and Sparky had walked around with a pan and brush least I "burst into flames and turned to ash." The day before that, he'd picked up the fire extinguisher from the front of the classroom and placed it next to my table.

Pretty much any silly joke, prank or wind-up could be blamed on the good looking blonde. His mischievous blue eyes were always on the lookout for someone or something to mess with.

"Thought as much." Brownie clapped my shoulder and turned to join the others. I watched her run to catch up before I turned in the opposite direction towards the tea bar and it's glorious air conditioning. I could already feel my body crying out for cold air and a nap.

Slow hours passed until it was time for the first pilots, Albino and Bambi, to face their instructors. I joined the rest of the course sat just outside the main hanger where our F-5E Tigers lived when they weren't all lined up on the pan, and watched as our opposition took off in their Fishbeds. The Yuktobanian jets looked their age, but I knew that in the right hands they were still formidable opponents. Then two F-5E Tigers taxied, and added to the rolling thunder with their own afterburners.

The day had only grown hotter, and as I followed the weaving contrails off the coast I felt more sweat ooze down my spine to soak my waistband. After half an hour, Albino and Bambi landed, and were replaced by Brownie and Earthquake. They were soon followed by Jester and Manbat, then Nomad and Sparky. As the pilots landed and came over, the verdicts came in. Bambi, Earthquake and Manbat had all been 'killed', while the rest had been somewhat successful.

As Sparky's rear wheels left the ground, I snubbed out my cigarette into the repurposed ammunition tin nearby and began the long walk to my jet parked on the far end of the pan. I cursed the ground crew, feeling my fair skin burning as the sun cooked me. Pulling on the rest of the g-suit was hell, and I grimaced as the sweaty flight suit was pressed against my skin. Then with a deep breath, I reluctantly pulled myself into the greenhouse that had become my cockpit. By the time the ground crew had assisted with the startup and my engines were running, my flight suit was drenched. The small air conditioning that I had switched on as soon as possible was nothing like the one in the tea bar but the cool air was unbelievable.

And then, as I sat there with my jet ready to go, the nerves began to kick in. I became acutely aware of the hammering in my chest and an overly dry mouth. Relax, you've done this before! This time is no different...just a different place, in a different plane, against a different opponent… My attempts at calming myself down were only marginally working and became pointless when the Tower came over the radio to tell us that finally, it was our turn to taxi.

"_Vampire, this is the Tower. Cleared to taxi, hold short of runway. Your callsign for this sortie will be Whiplash Alpha, and your opponent will be Whiplash Bravo. Zen, your callsign will be Jaywalk Alpha…_"

This was the moment I'd waited all day for. I slowly applied power and after a quick brake check, followed the yellow taxi mark or the 'yellow brick road' as some of our course had come to call it. My peripheral vision caught sight of Brownie waving at me from the hanger but by the time I'd registered it I was past her, and holding short of the runway. The sun was blinding, and I slipped the polarised visor of my olive flying helmet down to fend off the glare.

Another five minutes passed before Osiris landed, then Sparky straight after. I had no time to wonder how they had performed, as the Tower gave me my clearance to get airborne. I rolled forward and lined my nosewheel up with the dashed white lines that seemed to stretch into infinity. A last check, fuel was okay. Readouts okay. Control surfaces okay. It was time to go.

I exhaled deeply and pushed the throttle to the max. The lightweight jet leapt forward and everything outside my cockpit became a blur as the Tiger roared and accelerated. Halfway down the runway, I pitched up gently and the eager fighter pounced off the tarmac, the landing gear retracting at the move of a lever. The altimeter span clockwise, counting the feet I climbed until I leveled out at seven thousand, banking left towards my engagement area.

"Whiplash Alpha is on station. Whiplash Bravo, radio check?" I squinted and peered off the nose of my jet, looking for the speck of my opponent. He was out there somewhere, waiting for his next victim. I for sure was determined not to let him have me.

"_Whiplash Bravo, read you loud clear. Standby, initiate on my mark_."

That was all I got. None of the usual hints, tips or pointers the instructor usually gave out in the week, this was it. The first test. I kept the Tiger straight and level, and I focused on my HUD readings. There was no more time for nervousness, no time to bother about how bad I must smell. It was just me, the skies, and my opponent…

"_Whiplash Bravo...mark!_"

Immediately I saw a dark outline on the horizon and growing fast, at my one o'clock position. The MiG was going to pass me head on, and my guess was confirmed seconds later as the Fishbed shot past with a howl. My flaps and slats were already in a combat position, I knew the Tiger almost inside out. But I had one advantage the others probably did not. I also knew the Fishbed, and it's superior thrust to weight ratio. In a turning fight, I could beat him. But the Fishbed could out climb me. If I was in the MiG, booming and zooming would be the tactic I would use.

And sure enough, as I put the Tiger into a steady five g turn, I saw out the top of my cockpit the contrails of the MiG sweeping up above me. I swore, my voice strained with the forces. Somehow I had to force the MiG to turn with me. Otherwise, I was pretty much screwed. And now there was no real chance of me escaping. I had to fight.

Running out of time and options, I went with the only idea I had, and that was to head for the hard deck. Pushing my nose down and feeling my stomach lurch, I dived. I was careful to keep the MiG in sight, now just a black speck once again high above me. Any minute now and I knew he would dive down like a kingfisher, onto my tail for a shot to then pull away. But if I was at the hard deck, maybe I could force him down into a turn fight.

Either way, I was committed…

"_Whiplash, knock it off. I say again, knock it off._"

What?

I pulled the F-5 gently out of the dive, the altimeter reading seven hundred feet above the hard deck. Quickly, I checked my instruments and confirmed that the Tiger was running smoothly as ever. I had not breached the boundaries needed to escape.

What was going on?

"_Whiplash Bravo roger._" I strained to look above me, and saw in the distance the MiG begin a gradual descent. In contrast to how I was, the MiG pilot sounded calm and relaxed, another day on the job. "_Overwatch Actual, is there a problem?_"

"_Jaywalk, knock it off. Whiplash Bravo, Jaywalk Bravo, join with Alpha and remain in your areas. Standby and await further instructions._"

Something was wrong, but what? The MiG formed up on my wing, I looked over and saw the pilot give me a short wave. He acted like nothing was abnormal but I felt an itch, like the two instructors in the F-4 nearby, Overwatch, were not telling us something.

Maybe it's just a lost plane that's stumbled into our airspace, I thought to myself. The adrenaline from our seconds long engagement had since worn off, and now I felt annoyance creep in to replace it. Now the MiG pilot knew my tactic, I would surely have to rethink for when we eventually restarted. Out of curiosity, I looked at my radar and saw the Jaywalk duo formed up out in their own area. Overwatch was in between us, no doubt keeping an eye over the whole thing. But then two other blips, friendlies, caught my attention. They were closing, and closing fast.

"_Overwatch this is Harpey Actual, OMDF. We'll take it from here._" The voice was new, and must have come from the two new aircraft. He sounded sincere, and meant business. I began to wonder what the two Osean Maritime Defence Force jets were doing out here, perhaps that rouge aircraft I was thinking about was actually true?

"_Whiplash Alpha, do you copy?_"

It took me a second to register that Harpey Actual was talking to me, and another few seconds to break out of my confusion to respond. "Roger Harpey Actual."

By this time the two fast moving aircraft had reached our formation. A pair of F/A-18 Super Hornets, one pulled up next to me close enough for me to make out his weapon complement. Live missiles hung from his wings, the second jet was behind me. This was an intercept, and I was the target.

Now my heart really was pounding overtime.

"_Whiplash Alpha, proceed directly to Sand Island and land. Do not divert from this flight path. Failure to do so will be treated as hostile action. Do you understand?"_

I had to clear my throat and lick dry lips before I could reply. "Uh, roger Harpey." The MiG had since pulled away, leaving me alone with the two Hornets escorting me. I was incredibly cautious not to make any sudden moves as I banked towards Sand Island's main runway, ignoring the circuit and going straight to finals.

"_Harpey Actual this is Overwatch. What's going on? This is just a training exercise._"

"_Orders from Intelligence, Overwatch. They want that pilot down and in for questioning. That's all I can say._"

Osean intelligence? My stomach dropped, now I knew exactly what this was about. There was nothing I could do, given the Hornets behind me ready to shoot at a moment's notice. I touched down gently, probably my best landing ever, and used the entire length of the runway to slow down before pulling onto the taxiway and following the 'yellow brick road' all the way to the pan where the jets were lined up.

Everything became a blur after I shut down the engines and opened the canopy. Two black SUVs screeched to a halt next to the aircraft, and soldiers dressed in black kicked open each door. One reached up to pull me from the access ladder the ground crew had fitted and I hit the ground hard, feeling a sudden pain in my knee that almost brought tears to my eyes. Someone's knee pressed against my shoulderblades, my arms were roughly yanked back and another soldier tightened cold handcuffs around my wrists. As they hauled me to my feet, I saw in the distance the other pilots watching with bewilderment at the scenes unfolding in front of them. One of them, I could only guess it was Sparky, tried to run towards us but was quicky stopped by a third soldier.

"Thomasin!" I heard Brownie call out to me but I didn't respond. I had fully accepted the situation, and how much shit I was in. I felt nothing as I was bundled into the back of the SUV between two soldiers, and my world became black as a hood was thrown over my head plunging me into darkness.


	2. The Trial

They kept me holed up on the other side of Sand Island, the Grey Zone we'd called it. From the air, it looked like a fenced off compound with three oblong blocks which I had assumed to be accommodation. I was right in a sense, one of them certainly was a form of accommodation. Just not the typical Air Force standard. They'd somehow even managed to conjure up a meal that tasted even more like cardboard.

My room, or rather my cell, was dark and minimal. The three walls looked like they'd never seen soap or a sponge, and the bars that made the fourth wall certainly needed a lick of paint. All I had was a simple metal bed, with a thin blanket and a poor excuse for a pillow, and what I could only assume was a toilet. I was also acutely aware of the lack of shower facilities, and the Oseans had not given me a change of clothes.

You can imagine the state I was in.

On the morning of the third day, I was awoken by the deafening clang of bars, and two soldiers pulled me up from my bed. Neither of them spoke as they once again slapped handcuffs on my wrists and marched me out of my cell and across the yard towards the second oblong building.

I heard a roar, and looked up to see a pair of F-5 Tigers taking off in unison. I could only guess that ARCTIC had moved onto phase two, but I was dragged inside before I could continue to admire the two aircraft. They dumped me in a dark room with no windows, and a one way mirror. An interrogation room. The soldiers cuffed me to the table, not being gentle in the slightest, and left without a word. Seconds later, before I had time to adjust to the new setting, a dark haired man entered, and sat opposite me. In his scarred hands, he held a brown folder that matched the colour of his ugly suit.

"Name and rank." He ordered, not looking at me and instead focusing on the sole piece of paper he drew from the folder.

"Thomasin Fitzgerald." I answered clearly. "First Lieutenant." I told myself that everything was going to be fine. Everything will be worked out and in a few days I can get back to doing my job. All I had to do was answer his questions.

The man didn't look up from the paper, instead he just simply nodded. Then he looked at me, his eyes staring right through me. "I'll ask that again. This time, I want the truth. Name, and rank."

"My name is Thomasin…" I began to answer but I was cut off by the man tossing the paper towards me. I ignored them entirely. "Look, I'm an air force pilot. I was recruited in Oured and I'm based here doing the Advanced Recruit Combat Training Course. Why am I here?"

"That's not what the paperwork I have says." The man was unfazed by my attempts to demand answers from him. I looked down at the sheet in front of me, it was a personal file about me, my photo was at the top and underneath was my…

Oh shit.

Written underneath was my name. My real name. I stared at it in disbelief, how could the they have gotten such a document? Such a file would be hidden away, only those with clearance could access these documents. The man must have an inside source, which meant the whole intelligence agency could be compromised…

My face must have given the game away, because the man opposite me chuckled. "So, Miss Robolski. Let's start again. Name and rank."

"This has to be fake." I desperately tried to dig my way out of the hole I'd been thrown in. My whole world was crashing down around me.

"Actually, that came straight from Erusean Intelligence. As did this." Another paper was slid my way but I ignored it.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Spare me the bullshit Miss Robolski." The man snapped suddenly, catching me off guard. "I know everything about you. You weren't born in Oured, you were born in Farbanti. You joined the Erusean Air Force at the age of eighteen, qualified to fly the MiG-29, joined the Erusean Intelligence at twenty three and then sent undercover to join the OADF. After that…" He shrugged. "Well. I'll let you read the letter."

I did as he asked, awkwardly picking up the paper with shaking hands. Everything he had said was true, but I quickly forgot about all that as I read the document. It was written in Erusean, but I could easily read it and understand what it meant. And I knew the man opposite also understood what the document said.

The man leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "Let me tell you how screwed you are..."

* * *

After the Usean Continental War, the Erusean government saw an opportunity to rebuild it's armed forces and change the way they were trained. They wanted their Air Force to have the best training and the best equipment supplied from the EASA. And who better to learn how to train top pilots from than the Oseans?

But obviously, Osea wasn't about to give Erusea access to it's selection and training program. For several years Erusean Intelligence tried to get information out of the Osean pilots, usually through dating apps, but to no avail. So then they decided to put somebody through the training programme, but the young agent they sent failed the selection process and very little information was gained.

That's where I came in. Young, proven and trained, it was predicted that someone like me could pass the OADF selection and then get access to Osea's training for the highly skilled recruits, namely their Advanced Recruit Combat Training Instruction Course. And obviously, I did. My prior training and experience with the Erusean Air Force allowed me to excel at the Osean training courses and be offered a place on ARCTIC. And all the time I would write 'letters home', that I would give to my Erusean Intelligence contact in Osea, who in turn would send them back to Farbanti.

But I learned from the man in front of me that the Osean CIA had uncovered my contact long ago, and that the CIA had been receiving my letters from the very start. So when the Eruseans had not received my letters, they'd sent one to back to our contact. And when that got no response, assumed that I had gone rouge.

The letter in front of me stated just that. That I was now a out on my own, and a traitor to the Erusean state. On top of that, the Erusean government had revoked my citizenship, and sent the letter out to the Osean intelligence stating that if found, I was to be returned to Erusean custody for trial.

However, the CIA had some other ideas.

"There are three options." The man explained, holding up three slender fingers. "One, we send you back to Erusea. Maybe the Erusean intelligence really do want to try you for being a traitor and a defector, or maybe it's just a ride to get you back to them." He dropped a finger. "Two, we hold you here in one of our prisons. It would be a shame, a young talented girl, a pretty girl, like you being held up alongside murderers, rapists, drug dealers, all whom really despise foreign spies I hear. Or three…" Another finger fell. "You can tell us what we want to know. Answer our questions truthfully and perhaps we can help each other out. Obviously we can't let you go free, but there's a place we can send you, where your talents wouldn't be wasted."

Honestly, the idea of being locked up in an Osean prison surrounded by dangerous people who would love nothing more than five minutes alone with me scared me a little. Okay, it scared me a lot. In a place like that, I would probably give myself a fortnight if I was lucky before my sentence was cut short by someone's shank in the shower. And I knew there was no way I'd be sent back to Erusea. It left me just one option, and the man knew it. He had me right where he wanted me.

I felt dirty asking him, but I had no choice. Erusea had sold me out and Osea was not my home. My priorities had changed, from the mission to simply survival. I slid the paper back across the table and now it was my turn to lean forward, resting my arms on the warm metal. "First, I want some assurances."

"I'm listening." He said, leaning back in the chair. I doubted it but fuck it, it was worth a shot.

"My mother." I began. "She lives in Osea…"

"We know." The man interrupted, but I continued nonetheless.

"She can stay here, right?" It was more of a plea than a question, and I knew it.

"In the eyes of the law, she's done nothing wrong." The man shrugged. "She can stay."

"And this place you mentioned, you will send me there?"

"Yes."

"Okay." Now I sat back in my chair, as well as I could since my hands were bound to the table. I took a breath, understanding what I was about to do. My father would be turning in his grave, but to hell with it. Erusea had hung me out to dry. I had no more loyalties there. "What do you want to know?"

The man reached into his pocket and took out a cigarette. I half hoped he'd offer me one, but alas he lit his own and slid the lighter away. "So, what can you tell me about drones?"

I told him everything I knew, which if I was honest wasn't much. Occasionally the man would ask a question, or slide me a picture for me to look at and try to explain. I tried to answer everything he asked, in fear that he would change his mind. The more helpful I was the more chance there was of the man holding his end of the deal. There were some details I didn't know, how many drones were operational. Where they were, their capabilities, how they were controlled.

There were some questions I was able to answer. The topic of the questions moved from Erusea's drone project onto the state of the EAF. Pilot morale, training, general standard of maintenance of the aircraft. I answered them all as truthfully as I could.

Then finally, after what seemed like hours and the feeling in my legs had all but disappeared, the man stubbed out his third cigarette and stood. "Thank you Miss Robolski. You've been very helpful." He turned to leave."

"Then the deal stands?" I tried to keep from sounding too hopeful but I knew I'd failed when I heard the words leave my mouth. The man turned as he opened the door, and the same two soldiers re-entered.

"There's a plane leaving for Usea tonight." The man answered as the soldiers unlocked my handcuffs to unravel them from the table before quickly putting them back on. "You'll be on it."

Relief washed over me. The man left the room, and the soldiers walked me out after and back to my ugly cell. I had been lucky, for once. Well, as lucky as a captured spy could be. Exhausted from all the questioning I collapsed onto my bed, I didn't even know what time it was as I closed my eyes and let the darkness of sleep take me.

* * *

The CIA man in the ugly brown suit had kept his word. That night I had been awoken again by the clanging of bars by two soldiers, different from the ones that morning, and marched out towards the aircraft that would carry me to wherever this place was. The C-130 Hercules was packed to the brim with pallets covered in plastic sheeting and black rope securing the cargo, and I was surprised to find that I wasn't the only passenger on the aircraft.

They sat us together, still handcuffed, and the aircrew strapped us in with the seatbelt. There was almost no room to breathe, I was acutely aware of our bodies crushed together with no regard for personal space. I was once again conscious of how badly I must smell, and felt sorry for the poor guy.

It could be worse, I suppose. At least I wasn't being shipped off to an Osean prison surrounded by murderers, rapists and drug dealers.

I hoped.

Then the aircrew tossed earplugs at us, and the aircraft began to start up. Hurriedly I pushed the yellow ear cheeses into my ears before the roar became overwhelming and tried to relax as much as I could. The man next to me, a pilot as well judging by his flight suit, looked down at me and smiled, holding out his hand for what I assumed was a handshake. I took it, his grip was firm, and that was that. Our sole communication for the entire flight.

What followed was several hours of pure uncomfortableness. The cabin lights went out just before takeoff, and we both sat in darkness. Shortly after, the pilot next to me fell asleep but unluckily for me I was wide awake, daydreaming about this place the CIA were sending me to. What talents was he referring to? The only talents I had were flying, possibly espionage and playing the guitar. And I didn't know how playing a guitar would help the Oseans in any way.

The sun was just beginning to rise as the Hercules landed and the ramp lowered. I nudged the pilot awake as the aircrew unbuckled us, and marched us off the aircraft into the waiting custody of two more soldiers, this time dressed in the grey UCP of the regular military. There was no vehicle waiting for us, we were forced to walk from the pan to towards the hangers ahead.

Sadly, my hopes for cooler weather were disappointed. This place was just as hot as Sand Island, although thankfully not as humid.

As we walked towards the hangers, I assessed my surroundings. We were obviously held on an airfield, albiet a very run down one. The hangers looked like they were built in the 1950s, and filled with what appeared to be old, run down jets. Further down the pan, two of them were sat in the open while ground crew in orange coveralls crawled over them, a blue Flanker and a Hornet. Each bore white lines on their tales, two for the Flanker and one for the Hornet. I had no time to wonder what they were for before we were escorted into the hanger in front of us and towards a desk in the near corner.

"Names." The sodier manning the desk demanded in a bored tone as he studied a clipboard. The other pilot grinned at me and nudged my arm.

"Ladies first."

I brushed off then irritation and answered. "Sabina Robolski."

"Otto Reus."

This seemed to satisfy whatever was written on the clipboard. After scribbling something down the soldier waved us on to the next desk. Here we were issued basic clothes and toiletries. Two flight suits, five t-shirts, five pairs of socks, five sets of underwear, basic military issue toothpaste and shower gel. Reus' presumably light humoured request for moisturiser to keep his hands nice and soft was met with a gruff order to "Fuck off, convict!" And with that we were whisked out of the hanger towards the accommodation block.

Imagine a small military airbase crossed with a prison camp, and that's the best way to describe the place. There were a small gaggle of people dressed in olive across the small grass yard outside what I could only assume to be a mess hall, guards in UCP wandered about in pairs carrying rifles and several people who I guessed were other inmates were heading towards the hangers dressed in the same orange coveralls as the engineers working on the jets. The atmosphere was quiet, but I could sense a certain tension between the convicted pilots and the guards as was to be expected.

The cell block was marginally better than Sand Island's Grey Zone. The bed was still metal framed with the standard waterproof green matress I'd slept on during the Osean basic training, but at least now I had access to a sink, and a curtain to pull round the toilet. Reus was directed to the cell next to me and he seemed unfazed by the condition of the cell.

"Nice and homey." He grinned, to the amusement of the guards. "Looks like we're neighbors, Sab."

I didn't know what annoyed me more, his carefree attitude or his new nickname for me.

The soldiers gave us just enough time to dump our newly acquired clothes on our beds before they directed us across the yard past the mess, my stomach reminded me that I'd not eaten since lunch yesterday. The next building we were pushed into had a single room with a speaker's stand and projector screen sat in front of three rows of battered plastic seats, most of which were occupied by pilots jabbering and joking about something. The room fell silent when we entered, all eyes turned to bore holes into us.

"Fresh meat!" Someone shouted from the front.

"One's a girl too." Another pointed out the obvious. I'd assumed everyone in the room was a man, but the other woman's voice gave it away. It had been an easy mistake to make with her shaved head and defined arms.

Reus nudged me, and spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. "What's the general rule of prisons, find the biggest man and make him your bitch?" It sure got a reaction, several of the men stood up quick with chairs screeching as Reus laughed, holding his hands up. "It's a joke. I'm kidding, relax!"

"Better watch your mouth, Belkan." A tall man in the grey UCP uniform and hair to match entered the room as the men sat down, muttering to themselves. "I see you've met your new wingmen. A Belkan anarchist and an Erusean spy. Anarchists, they're like newspapers. Always want to change the world but just end up talking shit."

The comment got a a few murmured laughs. "Shut up!" The man shouted. "Now listen in new kids. I'm Commander McKinsey. Your sorry insignificant lives belong to me. You so much as sneeze out of line and I'll make sure you get nice and cozy in solitary confinement! You understand?"

"Yes sir." Reus gave the commander a half-assed salute, and I just simply nodded. I didn't want to draw any attention to me, and I was happy to let Reus be the shit deflector.

The Commander scowled. "The ground crew have some planes for you in the hanger. We've already taken the liberty of painting your sin lines on for you, go get yourselves acquainted with them. Better be a quick learner too, there's a sortie tomorrow and you're both on it. You better not crash, those planes are worth more than your asses."

I turned to leave, Reus hot on my heels. The hangers were only a short walk away but I could already feel another bead of sweat breaking out on my brow by the time we got there. Inside, several more technicians were working on the skeleton of an aircraft, the F-15's parts scattered about the hanger. Upon seeing us, one of them hobbled over, I noticed they wore a metal brace around their knee. As they came closer, I also noticed that they, or she in fact, was covered in dirt and grease from head to toe.

"You the new guys?" She asked, one hand on her hip and the other twirling a spanner nonchalantly.

"Yeah. Name's Otto." Reus grinned at her. "And you are? You don't look like a guard."

The woman snorted. "Pilots aren't the only convicts sent here. Someone has to fix the birds and they sure aren't sending regulars out here." She gestured over her shoulder towards the rear of the hanger. "You can call me the Scrap Queen. Your planes are in the corner." The Scrap Queen turned to head back to work, calling back as she did so. "Try not to break them, I only got them working the other day."

The grin didn't leave Reus' face, and I began to wonder if it ever did. The hanger was large enough to fit seven aircraft down each side, although most of the planes were in pieces and would likely never get airborne again. The sight of so many broken steeds started a trickle of doubt in my mind if our planes would be in any fit state to fly, let alone start up.

"Guess she means these ones." Reus pointed over to two in the corner free of work benches and piles of rusted and broken components. Mirages, two of them. Agile multirole fighters that I'd only seen in videos, I began to wonder how on Strangereal I would be able to figure out how to fly the thing before tomorrow's sortie. It was only when we were standing in front of the two jets that I then saw the distinctive white lines on the tail, one for Reus and two for me. And I also saw that his plane seemed to be in a better condition than mine.

Reus had noticed too. "I'm not complaining." He patted the fuselage affectionately. He climbed up to examine the cockpit, jumping down a few seconds later with a roll of papers. "Looks like we've got homework too. I'll see you around Sab." He waved the papers and waltzed back down the hanger. I wondered how he was so carefree, a nuclear bomb could go off nearby and I would put money on Reus not being fazed at all.

Well, the Belkans did nuke themselves seven times.

I smiled to myself at my own joke. I too climbed into the cockpit of my own Mirage, and saw my own wad of papers. I climbed in, sitting in the seat that was somehow more uncomfortable than the Hercules we'd come here on. Settling down, I flipped through the pages and groaned. There sure was a lot of homework written in what appeared to be hieroglyphics, or someone's incredibly poor handwriting. With a sigh, I began to read.


	3. First Impressions

_With an angry howl, wind buffering the jets so bad the pilots had to fight for control, a bolt of bright light smashed into the second Fulcrum. The aircraft lost power, and began tumbling helplessly towards the thrashing waves below. The pilot desperately yanked at the ejection handles to no avail, and could only watch as the plane dived closer and closer to the darkness that reached out to grasp them._

_The lead aircraft banked into a sharp turn so the pilot could observe what was happening. "Dagger Two, recover." But the second plane didn't respond. "Recover Dagger Two! Dagger Two!"_

* * *

I sat alone in the fairly packed mess hall the next day. Well, at least I tried to. As I began tucking into a delicious meal of colourless porridge and hard bread, a second tray was slid into place opposite me, and I groaned inwardly. While I sure wasn't a people person, I definitely was not a morning person. So people in the morning was certainly not my thing.

I looked up, expecting to see the thin unshaven face of Reus but was instead greeted by a taller man with scruffy blonde hair. He sat down heavily on the chair opposite and took a long, loud slurp of the carton orange juice he held.

"So, spy. Have you figured out what this place is?"

I shrugged. "I don't even know where I am."

"Then let me officially welcome you to Zapland, home of the 444th. Where all your hopes and dreams come true." The sarcasm was practically dripping from his mouth like half the orange juice he'd drank. His voice was anything but hopeful. "The number one dumping ground for convicted pilots Osea still needs."

"Better watch what you say around this one, Count." A second tray slid into place next to me. It was the tanned woman, who was trying too hard to be the badass tomboy of the group although to be fair to her she could probably snap me like a twig. "She's a snake. She'll bite you in the ass the first chance she gets. How many sin lines did they give you then, Snake Eyes?"

It took half a second to answer, the porridge sticking to the roof of my mouth like hot tar. "Two." I spluttered, drawing jeers from Count and the woman. Another question came to mind, and once I had managed to swallow the grey mess properly I asked them. "What do the sin lines mean?"

"Shows how bad you've been." The woman replied. "The more you have, the worse the crime. You must have been a pretty bad spy to only get two. I reckon a good spy could get three."

"Don't mind old Gunslinger here." Count chuckled. "She's just jealous because she's only got one."

"Should've been more." Gunslinger muttered bitterly as she viciously attacked her bread with a knife.

"She got drunk and drew her weapon on the squadron leader." Count answered the question I was just about to ask, then carried on poking at Gunslinger. "If you'd wanted more you should've pulled the trigger. Heard murder is worth at least two here. Maybe even three."

"Nobody's ever had three strikes." Gunslinger continued to stab at her bread. She wore her flight suit down and shirt sleeves rolled up to her shoulders, and I found myself lost in the incredibly detailed rose tattoo that adorned her left arm. Such a work of art must have been expensive...

"Watch it Snake Eyes." I snapped my gaze away and back to my meal. Gunslinger twirled her knife menacingly towards me. "You better not be following that Tabloid's advice and be looking for a fight."

My amber eyes rose to meet her piercing black ones. Somehow I plucked up the courage to retort and surprisingly I didn't mess the words up. "Stabbing me won't give you more sin lines. You'd be better off going for McKinsey."

There was a second's pause where I became acutely aware of my heart beat before Count laughed, a short bark, reaching over to snatch the knife from Gunslinger. "I like her. You're all fart and no shit, Gunnie. We're all on the same team here."

Gunslinger snorted. "I don't want an Erusean watching my back up there." She stood up, snatching her tray up with a rattle before storming off. "I'm watching you, Snake."

"Ignore her." Count picked his own tray up. "She's a good pilot but she's got no manners whatsoever. Come on, brief's in a few minutes and I wanna see what they've got in store for you."

We binned our plates and stacked the trays away, heading outside into the weather that was already too hot for me. As we walked across the stoned pathway to the small briefing room, I noted the guards looked more agitated than usual. They gripped their weapons harder, and every so often one would look to the skies. "What's going on?" I asked Count, who shrugged.

"Who knows. Guards out here get access to news from the outside world but we convicts are kept in the dark." He answered with very little enthusiasm. "Maybe our Glorious Leader will tell us now."

We pushed our way through the single door which squealed to announce our arrival. The room was already crowded with pilots and a few ground crew inmates. Commander McKinsey was already at the front, and by just looking at his face one could tell he was pleased with the situation. Whatever the situation was.

"You're late!" He barked at us. Well, it seemed he'd not lost his distaste for us overnight. "Sit down and listen in convicts, I've just received news that the Erusean government has declared war on Osea."

The room erupted into exclamation and mutters. I sank lower in my seat in a feeble attempt to escape the many prying and accusing gazes thrown my way. Realisation hit me like a freight train, I would be fighting Eruseans. My own people.

Erusea's not your home anymore. I reminded myself amidst the turmoil in my head. They cast you out, remember? I desperately needed air, but there was no hope of that. Instead I tried to ignore the cold sweat that had broken out all over my body and focused my whole attention on McKinsey in a desperate attempt to combat the tunnel vision creeping in.

"Quiet!" The room complied. "It's time for you lot to atone for your crimes! Lights!"

Someone at the back slapped the switch and plunged the room into darkness. The projector whirred up as slow as me getting out of bed, then a blue screen appeared on the screen behind McKinsey. A map of the world, with several red blips around Osea and some in Usea.

"Somehow the Eruseans caught us off guard." McKinsey explained, his booming voice cutting through me. "Drone strikes on Osean ports have crippled all our carriers at home, bombing runs have knocked out our local radar sites and the harbour at Fort Grays. Their airfield however is still active and they managed to repel the Erusean attack. Unfortunately they didn't send any aircraft to attack us here…"

"How is that unfortunate, exactly?" A fairly large pilot, one of the few who had stood up to challenge Tabloid yesterday, asked.

"Because what we're going to do is make Erusea believe Zapland is the main base for Osean air operations. We want them to concentrate their attack here so the other Osean bases can recover and counterattack. Their lives are far more important than any of yours." McKinsey growled. "To make us look like a main military base, some of you will be going up to fly patrols about the area and draw the attention of the Eruseans. And because the Eruseans have managed to seize control of the Space Elevator, the Osean Air Force needs to concentrate on reestablishing control. And it can't do that if the Eruseans continue to bomb our bases."

The Space Elevator, or the Lighthouse as some called it. I had only seen pictures of the massive structure constructed by the Oseans and a host of other nations in Gunthar Bay. Many hailed it as a joint venture and a sign of closer relations between Osea and Erusea. But I knew others who considered it another way Osean President Harling could attempt to exert power and influence throughout Usea, Erusea included. My father had been such a man, but it was no secret that Erusea's own Princess was against the construction. I had come to wonder how such a structure could come to symbolise two different ideals, one of togetherness and one of domination. And now it was becoming the focus of conflict.

I was beginning to think that the damn thing should've been left unbuilt.

The Commander picked up a piece of paper from the desk and studied it in the glow of the projector. "The two new guys will be going up first. Reus, you will be known as Spare Eleven. Robolski, you're Spare Thirteen. Consider these your prisoner numbers. Spare Three, Spare Nine and Spare Twelve will be going up with you. The rest of you are dismissed for general duties. Your time to atone will come later!"

The room emptied with a loud screech and chatter. When just me, Gunslinger, Tabloid and two others remained, Commander McKinsey clicked on the screen and a map of Usea appeared, with Zapland highlighted. Our flight path was shown, a simple line stretching out towards Erusea until it stopped over the ocean, a few hundred miles west of us. "Command has identified this area as a place where Erusean bombers meet with some of their escorts. You should be able to find some Erusean aircraft here. Your mission is to patrol this area and intercept any Erusean aircraft you find." He then looked directly at me with a glare that could probably turn Medusa to stone. "And don't even think about trying to defect! Your aircraft are fitted with remote explosives and your ejection seats are deactivated. You even think about running and I will personally blow you out of the sky! Dismissed!"

It was our turn to leave. I stood on unsteady legs, and was the first the leave the room well aware of McKinsey's eyes drilling holes into the back of my head and willing me not to return. As I stepped out into the bright sun, blinded for several seconds, a heavy knock made me lose balance, somehow I managed not to face plant the dirt.

"Remember. I'm watching you, Snake." She hissed. I felt hot and irritated, but I knew better than to start a fight I couldn't win. So instead, I waited for Gunslinger to walk on, followed closely by Spare Three and Spare Nine.

"I didn't think you'd take my joke seriously." Still carefree as usual, Reus, or Tabloid "You might want to find someone smaller to fight."

I shook my head. "That woman has it out for me."

"She has it out for everyone. Looks like we'll be on our own up there. Don't worry, I've got your back."

It was a nice gesture but I was too worked up to notice. Without a word, I began to follow Gunslinger and the others with Tabloid on my shoulder.

The aircraft were lined up outside the hanger. Our two battered Mirages were at the far end, next to a pair of Hornets that had seen better days and an F-16 that didn't seem serviceable by any standards. They were already armed, four air to air missiles per aircraft. Climbing into the cockpit, I found a second hand G-suit and a helmet that had probably been worn by thousands of other pilots over the many years of service it had seen. I tried not to think about the numerous other pilots that must have worn, sweated in and probably pissed themselves in the suit as I pulled it on. Then I slipped into the cockpit and belted myself into the ejection seat. Well, the seat, I told myself. This thing wasn't going to eject me anywhere.

The only assistance I had during the startup was the paper I'd somehow deciphered the night before and a single orange clad ground crew to unplug the ground power unit sat nearby. Back in the OADF, I'd become fairly confident with F-5E startups and before that, MiG-29s. But in the baking hot sun of Zapland in the greenhouse that was the cockpit, I was by far the last to finish getting the Mirage ready to fly. The engine reluctantly started up with a cough and splutter, then it whined and powered up.

I decided there and then that I would be lucky to make it back alive. If the Eruseans didn't kill me, the bucket of bolts someone called a serviceable aircraft would.

"_Spare Squadron this is the Tower. Cleared to taxi. Spare Three first, follow on in line_." The tower sounded bored, a far cry from the professional military air traffic controllers I'd encountered before.

One of the Hornets went first, followed by the F-16. The second Hornet sat between Tabloid and me as we taxied down the line at what was easily double the normal taxi speed. I was sure to do a brake check before I set off, and was pleasantly surprised when the jet came to a stop. At least that was one system working properly. Sadly though, the climate control system wasn't.

I settled back into the seat, trying and failing to get comfortable. This was going to be one long sortie.

Eventually we were given our clearance. "_Clear for take off. Linked to AWACS Bandog. Climb to angels fifteen, vector two five five to mission airspace. Have fun._" His last sentence implied that we would indeed, not have fun. He must have left the mic on, because over the airwaves came the angry sound of someone dishing out a bollocking.

"_Hey! Did I say you could clear them to go?! That was your last warning convict! I'll make sure you end up in solitary for…_"

The comms went quiet just as Spare Three rolled onto the runway and lit up the afterburner. The small F-16 nimbly leapt forward and eagerly began to climb, followed closely by the two Hornets and Tabloid's Mirage. Then it was my turn to line my nose up with the dashed while centre line and set my throttle to max.

There was a noticable delay between pushing the throttle and the engine beginning to roar. The Mirage was more powerful than the F-5E, at least a fully serviced and looked after model was. It was only when I was halfway down the runway and it felt like most of the bolts had been shaken loose that I could coax the nose up and pull the aircraft off the ground. The landing gear rose with a groan, but finally I was airborne.

I peered over my shoulder at my new home slowly growing smaller in my wake. I gasped, the whole place was three or four times the size what I had been expected. Our little airfield sat upon an island, across a small bridge was a huge airbase where rows upon rows of B-52 bombers sat lined up wing to wing taking up the area of a small town. Two more runways. Fighters were scattered about like ants, two huge runways crossed at angles, and stretched into the distance.

How in the world had Erusea missed this? I had to tear my gaze away and look through the shakey HUD and faint green display that was almost too dim to see. Where was that dial to turn it brighter? The hieroglyphics were useless and I gave up. It would have to do for now, I pushed the jet as hard as I could without flicking to the burners to catch up with the others.

"_Alright convicts, listen in._" I sighed into my oxygen mask, I knew that tone of voice. It was a man who knew he had power, and wasn't afraid to abuse it. "_This is the AWACS Bandog. I'll be running top cover on this mission and all missions for Spare_."

"_This is Spare Twelve. Form up on me, arrowhead formation_."

Of course Gunslinger would take lead. Grudgingly I slid into position in Tabloid's five o'clock, while Three and Nine took the other flank. Another check of the cockpit instruments told me nothing had changed since the last time I'd checked them. Everything was still relatively in one piece. Except for an annoying rattle which I sincerely hoped wasn't anything too important.

"_One five zero miles to mission airspace._" Bandog checked in once more. "_You're in luck. Five bogeys inbound vector two seven zero headed towards the mission airspace angels twenty. Climb angels five, maintain current airspeed to intercept._"

"_Spare Twelve, roger. Climbing."_ The lead aircraft pitched up and we all followed. It was far from a textbook airshow display, but then again we were far from airshow pilots. I kept on Tabloid's wing, fighting the urge to jettison the canopy to replace the stale, hot air that stank of my sweat. In frustration, I slapped the climate control panel and to my disbelief and a sigh of relief cool air rushed into the cockpit. A little piece of heaven in the hell I was in. I'd lost feeling in my ass shortly after takeoff, and I was wondering if it would ever return.

"_Spare Nine. Tally, five bogeys ten o'clock high. Got them on radar, Erusean IFF. Two bombers and an escort_."

There was a brief pause. "_Are you waiting for an invitation, Spare Nine? You're clear to intercep_t."

"_Roger. Fangs out._" There was more enthusiasm in roadkill than in Spare Nine's voice.

It took me half a minute to find the weapon control panel, and the MASS and LAS switches that would let me use my weapons. Reaching down, I flicked the MASS to live and was greeted with a short sharp warning tone and a light flashing on the warning panel. Frowning, I switched it back to safe and tried again but the tone returned. "AWACS, Spare Thirteen. My weapons systems are offline."

_"You must be one of the new recruits_." Bandog sneered. "_Your weapons are locked, unless Base Command or I decide you can use them_."

"_Say again AWACS, we're intercepting without weapons online?_" Tabloid sounded as surprised as I did. So he did show other emotions. "_How are we meant to shoot them down then? Throw stones at them?_"

"_That sounds like a you problem, Spare Eleven_." I could almost hear Bandog smirking, sat in his ISTAR aircraft miles away watching our mission on a computer screen. It reminded me what I had become, an expendable pawn in a chess game. "_Continue on current course to intercept. The dead pool has good odds today, don't let me down._"

"_Bandits dead ahead, twelve o'clock. Escorts have seen us, they're turning to engage_." A different man's voice, Spare Three I assumed. Sure enough, I spied three of the growing black specks in the distance break off and point themselves towards us. A three on five fight, the Eruseans sure were brave. Of course, the odds were all in their favour but they wouldn't know that. "_Spare Twelve, what's the game plan?"_

"_Survive_." Gunslinger growled. "_Three, Nine, engage far left. Eleven, Thirteen, take far right. I'll spook the bombers then come back to support._"

"_Spare Three roger. Judy on intercept. Nine, cover my six_."

"_We're gonna get our fangs stuck in the floorboards_." Spare Nine muttered over the comms but complied anyway, the F-16 and the rear Hornet banking away in unison. Ahead of me, Tabloid did the same and I followed seconds after, sliding over to his other wingtip.

"_Spare Eleven to Spare Thirteen. I'll take point. Watch my back...if you can_."

As our formation broke, so did theirs. Gunslinger had climbed high, and the three Erusean fighters screamed through the hole we had made. My sharp eyes caught the shape of them, MiG-21s, leaving dirty trails in the sky with their single engines. One smoke trail was darker than the other, a damaged aircraft perhaps? I had no time to think about it as Tabloid pulled into a sharp 6g turn and I followed. I squeezed my thighs to keep the blood from pooling in my feet, keeping my eyes glued to the enemy aircraft least I lose sight of them. A mistake often fatal in combat, and how I had lost many a mock engagement.

"Spare Three, two have gone your way." I groaned against the strain of the turn. "One looks damaged."

"_Three, Copy._" They too were struggling with the forces.

As our jets banked about, the solo MiG we were chasing had also reversed it's turn and was trying to bring it's weapons to bear on us. Our Mirages had turned quicker however, Tabloid snap-rolled to bank the other way as the MiG once more passed out nose. I slammed the control stick against my left thigh to follow, adrenaline cursing through my veins like fire. This was it, my first proper combat.

"_They've split. Should I follow?_" It was Nine, calling out to Three. I ignored the transmission, concentrating on rolling out of the turn as our own MiG had seen us once more out-turn him. From where I was just below Tabloid, he was in a good position to fire but alas our all-seeing AWACS wouldn't let us. I cursed in my native tongue, careful not to push the PTT. The last thing I wanted was to make everyone think I was in with the enemy.

"_Negative, stay behind me."_

_"He's just gonna get behind us! Screw it, I'm engaging!"_

_"Spare Nine!"_

"_He's going high_." The last one was Tabloid as the MiG we chased abruptly pulled up into a loop. We followed, again I squeezed to remain conscious as the g meter rose and rose. The world turned upside down, I felt a moment of weightlessness before the g forces slammed back into me. My grip tightened on the HOTAS controls as we traded altitude for airspeed, with a sudden judder and bang as the sound barrier was broken. Still gaining speed and energy, the Fishbed broke into a high speed turn with Tabloid and I close behind and hot on his heels.

"_Spare Nine, report!"_

_"No joy! I've lost him in the clouds!"_

The MiG was getting desperate, jinking crazily into a series of barrel rolls we were forced to follow. I could only imagine his confusion. He must think we're toying with him!

"_AWACS, Spare Eleven. This is getting beyond a joke. Can we please have permission to fire?"_

"_You have your orders. The bombers will leave the airspace in five minutes. Keep them occupied until then."_ Bandog happily denied Tabloid's request as the Fishbed broke into yet another fast turn, drawing us away from the bombers…

"_Spare Three! He's behind you!"_

_"I'm spiked! Can't evade…"_ The transmission went dead. I risked a glance about me, and saw a single flaming wreck in the near distance tumbling down to the seas below. Two MiGs pulled away like sharks, the lead one still trailing dark smoke.

"Spare Three is down." I thumbed the mike, unable to keep the anger from my voice.

_"If we were allowed to fire, maybe we could have helped him!_" That was Gunslinger, but I couldn't see her aircraft. "_The bombers are spooked, I'm coming back to help."_

"_This is Spare Nine, they're coming after me! I need support!_" A far cry from the bored man I'd heard earlier. "Someone get these assholes off my tail!"

"_Hang tight. I'll be there in thirty seconds. Bandog! Give me weapons!"_

I could tell that Spare Nine didn't have thirty seconds. Panic had set in, he'd lost sight of the targets, and now he was alone.

"_Absolutely not! Your job is to deceive the enemy, not kill them! Continue the mission, convict!_"

Meanwhile our prey had dived for the deck, rapidly gaining speed and heading back towards Erusean airspace. He must be low on fuel by now, I wondered. That reminded me, and in between chasing Tabloid and keeping an eye on the MiG, I checked my own fuel gauges. The unhealthy engine was drinking fuel faster than a Yuke drank vodka, I estimated I had less than five minutes until bingo fuel.

"Spare Eleven, Spare Thirteen. I'm going to support Nine. You got this?"

"_Copy. This one's bugging out anyway._"

Free of the engagement, I turned away while scanning the skies and intermittent clouds for any sign of the three aircraft. I pointed my nose in the direction my radar had picked them up in, and sure enough the faint grey trail of the damaged MiG high above me. They were both hounding Spare Nine, who was ducking and weaving in a desperate dance to survive. I was helpless, bound to watch as the Hornet pulled too hard into a turn and lost all it's energy. The stalling aircraft was easy prey for the MiGs, they lit it up with a hail of bright orange gunfire.

"_I'm hit! Mayday! I'm going…"_ The Hornet exploded before he could finish. At least it was quick, I told myself. At least he didn't have to watch the ground come up to claim him.

"_Dammit_!" Gunslinger cursed loud enough to make me flinch instinctively. "_Bandog! Pull your head out your ass and let us use our goddamn weapons!"_

_"Any more attitude from you, Spare Twelve, and I'll have you thrown in solitary!"_ Bandog retorted just as loud. "_Two minutes."_

_"Fuck you_!"

The MiGs were getting closer, they had a different target in sight. Gunslinger suddenly came into view, charging recklessly through the middle of the pair. Like heat seeking missiles, they twisted sharply onto their new prey.

_"Spare Eleven. This MiG is going home. Did someone forget to refuel the aircraft? I'm on bingo fuel already. Gotta return to base."_

_"Negative Spare Eleven! Keep distracting the fighters."_

_"No can do Bandog. I'm RTB."_

_"Damn it! We haven't got the fuel for this!"_ Gunslinger cursed. "_Snake Eyes! Take over so we can get out of here."_

I also was about to hit bingo fuel, the fuel gauge hovering dangerously near empty. I had enough for one pass, then could only hope that the Fishbeds were also in the same state. But how was I supposed to clear Gunslinger's six with no fuel, and no weapons?

Well, I had weapons. But I couldn't fire them. However…

A plan came suddenly to mind. My timing had to be something spectacular but there was no other option I could think of. Thankfully it didn't take but a few seconds to find the cockpit instruments I needed, two more seconds to line my aircraft up...

This is gonna work.

The two MiGs were fangs out for Gunslinger, chasing her down with everything they'd got. Gunslinger was running as fast as she could, the missiles would follow her soon…

This is gonna work.

But what if the Eruseans saw me? That would ruin the whole plan! What if they suddenly broke off to go home? What if Gunslinger jinked? But nothing changed as I grew closer and closer and closer…

This was gonna work!

A half second before I screamed past the front MiG, I jammed the emergency jettison button through the control panel. With a clunk, my four missiles were tossed from my wings then I was through, speeding away into a smooth parabola that would point me home to Zapland. There was a one in a million chance that any of the missiles I'd randomly tossed in the vague direction of the Eruseans had actually hit. In fact, there was probably more chance of me winning the lottery twice in a row.

To quote one of my favorite films, thanks to Sparky forcing me to watch it, it was like hitting a bullet, with a smaller bullet whilst wearing a blindfold and riding a horse. So you can imagine the absolute astonishment and disbelief when I peered back over my shoulder to see one of the MiGs, the one with the screwed up engine, tumbling to earth. One of my wildly thrown missiles had taken off it's vertical stabiliser, the pilot had immediately bailed out and was now floating gently towards the sea below.

And that was how I claimed my first aerial kill.

"Spare Thirteen...splash one bandit."

There was a full minute of silence as I watched the last MiG give up the chase and pull away to catch up with the bombers it was supposed to be escorting. Relief washed over me, followed by exhaustion as my body's supply of adrenaline stopped. We'd done it! We'd actually survived!

_"Say again, Spare Thirteen. You splashed a bandit?!"_ Bandog's tone was a mix of anger, surprise and what I decided was impressed. It probably most certainly wasn't but I was going to claim that one small victory. "_You were ordered not to shoot down any enemy aircraft! Your FCS was locked! How the hell did you...what even...never mind! Get your ass on the ground! Now!"_

"_Good kill Snake Eyes_." For once, Gunslinger didn't sound like she wanted to knock me unconscious. "_Think I owe you one. Form up on me. Let's go home."_

* * *

Guards were waiting for us when we landed and powered down. Once more, I was dragged from the cockpit and slammed face down into the hot concrete while cuffs were tightened several clicks more than I would have liked around my wrists, and we were marched straight to the briefing room. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred zollars.

Commander McKinsey was there already, red faced and ready to blow. I caught a look from Tabloid sat across the small walkway from me, grinning like a schoolboy and I smiled back. Bring it on, Commander McKinsey.

"You were ordered not to shoot down any enemy aircraft!" He shouted, spit flying over the unfortunate podium. "You all disobeyed a direct order! Solitary! All of you!"

I didn't care when I was again yanked out of my seat, and roughly pushed out the door. Euphoria still filled my veins as the guards frog marched us to the solitary confinement block, a fenced off brick wall that looked far newer than the rest of the camp, with four tiny cells that barely had room for the single bed inside. No windows, no bars, just darkness as the guard shoved me inside after freeing my wrists and slamming the door shut behind me.

Blindly, I collapsed onto the bed and it's lumpy matress. Three more loud bangs echoed through the building, then silence. Pure, uninterrupted, blissful silence. I was alone in the bleak, lightless cell with nothing but my thoughts to entertain me.

I could get used to this.


	4. Trigger

The bombings started on the second day of my stint in solitary confinement. From my small cell that stank of my old sweat-stained flight suit and unwashed hair, the thunder that rocked the building sounded distant, hitting outside our little prison camp. I would count the jets by their engine roar as they took off to intercept, then count them back in. Every time they went up, someone wouldn't make it back. For any other squadron, the losses would be remembered, names going down and hailed as heroes for their valiant defence of Osea against the Erusean onslaught.

But in reality, nobody would remember our names. There would be no _this was our finest hour _or _so much was owed by so many to so few _speeches about the fallen. In the words that I knew Commander McKinsey would say, they atoned for their crimes with their lives. This wasn't a prison camp anymore. It was death row.

In the four days I'd been in solitary, we'd lost seven pilots to the fake intercepts. I wondered what the dead pool odds looked like now.

Solitary confinement had become the safest place for us convicted pilots to be. Twenty hours locked in a small cell, with one hour and a half for exercise and half an hour for a shower and personal hygiene in the washroom that somehow left you feeling dirtier than cleaner. The twenty hours I spent in my cell soon got weird, I found out some interesting stuff about myself that I didn't know before. You know how long I can hold my breath for? Fifty three seconds. I can plank for two minutes and thirty four seconds. And now I know my seventeen times table off by heart.

My conscience has also become my new best friend. She's called Karen. She doesn't shut up, and she really like the song _Landing in Oured _by Three Doors Down. If I was allowed a guitar, I'd definitely have to try and play it.

I counted the days by the showers I had, after three days Tabloid and Gunslinger were let out to join the others. They left me in for a fourth day, then let me out to join the rest of the squadron. What I hadn't prepared myself for was the complete change in the atmosphere. I should have expected it however. There was no longer a carefree attitude among the pilots, and a tension with the guards. Everyone wore the same grim and exhausted look, wondering when it would be their turn to buy the farm.

Due to a shortage of flyable aircraft, my Mirage had been assigned to someone else. That someone had been shot down, leaving me grounded until the Scrap Queen could conjure up a new plane for me. So I was confined to watch as the chosen Spare pilots climbed to intercept an enemy they couldn't shoot down, slowly but surely wondering when the anticipation of finally going up would drive me insane. Although I wouldn't admit it, I was scared. The odds of survival during the intercepts was low, and the dead pool odds reflected that. At least by buckshee kill from the last mission had raised my odds somewhat. I was on 5-1 odds for an early end to my war.

Several weeks later, after what had seemed like endless waiting and 'general duties' that involved lots of sweeping and moving stuff, the Scrap Queen finally came to me with a plane. "Sorry about the wait." She had said, with a tone that suggested that she wasn't sorry at all. "Finally got a ride sorted for you. After that stunt you pulled a few weeks back, I thought I'd build you something worth flying. Got one of the artistic techies to paint you a little something on it too."

I certainly was curious to find out what it was, and she directed me to the next hanger. Tabloid's Mirage was there, next to an Su-33 and a MiG-29. Part of me hoped to see a second Fulcrum stowed away for me, a plane that I knew how to fly. However there was no second Fulcrum. Instead, my plane was something more...unique.

The Emmerian designed plane was easily recognisable. Twin engine, large delta wing, canard foreplanes and bubble canopy. A Typhoon. How the hell did she manage to get her hands on one of these? The Typhoon was modern art next to the old, beaten Flanker and Fulcrum, and even stood out among the many Hornets that lined the other side of the hanger. I slid my hand along the leading edge of one of the wings, lost for words. It was a shame about the two sin lines that struck through the tail.

"You like her?" The Scrap Queen grinned from the entrance to the hanger. "Found her burried away among the other jets across the channel. All she needed was an engine overhaul."

I nodded, patting the wings and moving forward to inspect the front. The Scrap Queen hadn't lied, sure enough just under the cockpit was a small emblem. A pair of dice, both landing on one. Snakeyes. A chuckle came from behind me, I heard her turn to awkwardly hobble out. "Better get reading. I hear on the grape vine you're up tomorrow."

So once again, my night was spent deciphering hieroglyphics by the dim light of the single corridor light peeking through my bars.

The mess hall wasn't nearly as packed as it had been on my first day here, and almost deathly quiet save for a single table under the dead pool at which sat two fairly large pilots and a small crew of engineers and guards. The food hadn't changed much either. It was still terrible.

Tabloid was sat with Count, and they waved me over. The Belkan looked like he'd attacked his stubble with a blunt broadsword as opposed to a razor, several shaving cuts lined his jaw while Count was in desperate need of a haircut.

"Welcome back, Snake Eyes." Tabloid's voice matched his expression, and the looks of all the pilots in the room. Burned out.

"Where's Gunslinger?" I asked. I hadn't seen the on-edge tomboy when I'd scanned the room. Count shook his head, not pausing as he ate his eggs.

"Solitary again. Mouthed off at Bandog one time too many."

"Oh…" I should have guessed.

"We've got a bunch of new pilots come in. Heard one's got a bit of a reputation."

Tabloid looked up at Count with curiosity. "How do you know that?"

Count continued to eat, answering between mouthfulls. "I know a guy, deals with all the incoming convicts. Information…" He turned to me. "...is key. You know that better than any of us eh, Snake Eyes."

I shrugged. "I suppose."

Count continued. "I like to think I hear about things before y'all do. Get a few guys to owe you some favours or a little bit of blackmail or bribes then you can find out about quite a…"

The alert siren began to bellow, I practically jumped out my skin. There was a collective groan that spread throughout the mess hall, several forks were thrown down in disgust and an angry cry of "Give us a goddamn _break!_" echoed from the dead pool table.

"I wonder how many we'll lose this time." Count muttered, standing up with tray in hand. "Come on, may as well work for a living."

We followed, joining the crush of pilots dumping half finished meals into the bins and crowding into the briefing room. I say crowding, there was now enough room for two seats per man. While I didn't know everyone in the room, far from it in fact, I knew the look of a new guy when I saw one. Three of them sat alone at the front, not looking when the rest of us piled in. Two men and a woman, another girl to add to the one-and-a-half we already had.

The deafening alarm continued to yell bloody murder into our ears until the red faced McKinsey stormed in, almost taking the door off it's squeaky hinges. "_And somebody switch that goddamn alarm off!" _He screamed behind him before the door meekly closed. Somebody didn't get their beauty sleep last night.

"You cons know the drill." He growled at us from his perch behind the podium, fingers digging into the aging wood. "Some of you will need to go up and intercept…"

"You mean, go up and die." Count muttered, loud enough for all to hear. It was met with several murmers of agreement.

"Well volunteered Count." McKinsey didn't miss a beat. He studied the sheet in his hand, suddenly distracted from his train of thought. "I've got some other juicy news for you. The Osean President Harling was killed trying to escape from the Lighthouse."

If he was expecting a response from his unwilling audience, he got none. Blank faces all around. The love for Osea, the country forcing them to die for little reason, was understandably absent among us convicts. "So what's the juicy news?" High Roller asked sarcastically, and that drew a few short laughs from the room, myself included.

"Investigations rule that he was killed by friendly fire." McKinsey added, a rare but evil smirk appearing on his usually scowling face. "And Trigger, the new guy here, was the one that did it."

That got slighty more of a reaction. Someone whistled loudly above all the sudden conversation and nudging of fellow pilots. There were one or two calls of _nice shot _and _that's gotta be worth three strikes._

Trigger didn't react, except to continue to stare through McKinsey. Apart from his closely cut black hair and broad shoulders, there was nothing I could see of him. I was curious, what had motivated such an attack on such a public figure? And how the hell did he get away with being sent to a penal squadron, instead of death row in some max security prison?

Then again, Spare Squadron was basically death row itself.

"Shut up!" Once more the room became deathly silent save for the whirring of the old projector. "As I was saying, we need some of you to go and intercept these bombers. Snake Eyes! You haven't been up in a while!"

Was it relief that spread through me? Nervousness? Or acceptance? I couldn't decide. "Tabloid, Count, and you three new guys. That ought to be enough. Get to your planes…"

The cabin rocked without warning, the unmistakable sound of bombs exploding not too far away. "What are you waiting for?!" McKinsey turned angry again, which I expected wasn't hard for a man like him.

The room emptied quicker than it filled. Tabloid appeared at my shoulder as we power walked towards the hangers, Count just behind. Trigger was a few paces in front, the other two new faces were nowhere to be seen. Tabloid nudged me with a smirk and a wink, then called out to Trigger over the sound of the bombing.

"So, Harling's murderer, eh? You not planning on shooting any more friendlies today huh?"

No reaction whatsoever. The tall, black haired man continued to stride onwards unfazed by everything around him. He was remarkably tall, I noticed. Much taller than me, while I thought we were walking at some pace he still pulled away from us with ease. By the time we had reached the hangers and passed through onto the line, Trigger was already at his plane, climbing into the cockpit. I recognised the F-15 as the one the Scrap Queen had been tinkering with the day before and sure enough, it bore three strikes.

_Gunslinger would be jealous_, I thought as I climbed into the cockpit of the Typhoon. There was no time to think about anything else as I ran through the aircraft's start up procedure as fast as I could, but as always I was the slowest. The first aircraft were already beginning to taxi from the pan, Trigger was first, rolling down the taxiway far faster than normal taxiing speed. I sighed, shaking my head to myself. That's exactly what we needed, a fresh young hotshot. If High Roller was about, I would've put money on Trigger being killed this sortie. Those kind of pilots always did.

_"...second wave of bombers approaching vector zero seven zero. Get your asses moving convicts! Runway zero one zero is clear for take off. Linked to Bandog."_

I was last again, taxiing behind Tabloid. Up ahead I saw Trigger's Eagle turning onto the runway and without a pause or a word, lit up the afterburners and roared past me. A Flanker was next, following suit and immediately followed by two Hornets and the Mirage. Then it was my turn to line up in the runway once more and push the throttle all the way to the max.

The response was instant. The powerful Emmerian fighter launched forward and gained speed faster than anything I'd sat in before. It was only five or six seconds before I pulled back on the control stick too hard and went vertical off the tarmac and into the air.

Now I looked like the showoff hotshot. I rolled one hundred and eighty degrees and pulled back more gently this time to bring the nose down, then rolled the right way up. Landing gear came up smoothy, and with the weight on wheels microswitch made, I flicked the MASS to live and groaned when the warning tone taunted me once more. Of course we weren't allowed weapons.

_"This is the AWACS Bandog." _The familiar sneer of our unhelpful guardian angel was unmistakable. _"Commence deception and interception. Bombers approaching vector zero seven zero, angels twenty, distance zero two zero miles."_

Almost immediately, I was hounded by an Erusean fighter. The escorts from the previous run had remained behind to pounce on us, I realised. Clever. Quickly I rolled onto my wingtip and pulled into a sweeping left hand turn out over the ocean.

_"They're all over me! Weapons aren't working! Need support!"_

It was a woman's voice, one of the new pilots. I could imagine her confusion, the same confusion I had felt four weeks ago on my first Spare Squadron mission. The Erusean fighter was still on my tail, craning my neck awkwardly round I immediately recognised the shape of the jet, it's twin tails and small size. A Fulcrum, certainly a step up from the Fishbeds I'd encountered last time.

I quicky rolled onto my other wingtip and pulled back harder. With the Typhoon's more powerful thrust, I could afford to lose a little more energy. Already, even with the MiG pilot following my manouvre I could see the results, I was slowly but surely pulling round into his six, the hunter becoming the hunted.

_"Better get used to that, Spare Ten. Convicts use nothing around here unless myself or Commander McKinsey says otherwise. Spare Thirteen! Quit playing around and go after those bombers!"_

I ignored Bandog. What was the point, anyway? Besides, the MiG had abandoned the turn and tried to climb, gratefully I stopped pulling the near seven g turn with a sigh of relief and followed. A touch more throttle and the Typhoon eagerly and easily kept up with the climbing Erusean. If only I had weapons, this enemy would be an easy second kill…

Another warning tone in my headset, a second Erusean had joined our dance and was pulling up behind me, locking weapons. Reacting instinctively I pulled back on the control stick and flipped the Typhoon into a dive, abandoning my prey and evading.

_"Spare Ten, they're all over me! Need support!"_

The sky was a mess of organised chaos. I couldn't see where Spare Ten was, amongst the wild dance of silhouettes and contrails. But there was no time to keep looking, the ground came up fast and the MiG on my six wasn't giving up the chase that easily.

_"Once again, the FCS is locked." _Count's voice, emotionless as ever. _"Shame, could of had me some bombers. Hang tight Spare Ten, I'll see what I can do…"_

_"Disregard, my six is clear...who was that?"_

I was dangerously close to splashing myself into the sea, and yanked back on the control stick. The g forces hit me like a freight train, eight of them suddenly squeezing the life out of me. It took all my effort to stop myself from passing out, forcing myself to breathe into my oxygen mask until my nose was pointing up and once more I climbed.

_"It was Three Strikes, where did he come from?"_

_"No idea, but he's sure keeping those four busy."_

The MiG chasing me wasn't so lucky as I was. I looked back just in time to see the Fulcrum clip the waves and somersault across the water in an impressive display of spray and fragmentation. I was absolutely claiming that kill. "Spare Thirteen, splash one." _Literally._

_"How come Snake Eyes gets to use weapons and we don't?_" That was Tabloid, sounding somewhat miffed. "_Is that a hint of favouritism I see, Bandog?"_

_"None of you have weapons, Spare Eleven." _Bandog growled. _"Spare Thirteen! Do you want to end up in solitary again?!"_

I didn't answer. Although solitary almost guaranteed survival for a few more weeks, the idea of spending any more time with Karen singing in my head didn't appeal to me in the slightest. As I climbed higher, ever watchful of my back, I saw the bombers passing above. Bears, the unmistakable outline with a thin fuselage and long wings, the engines protruding out from them. Ugly things. I frowned. The decoy base was on the other side of the channel, why were they dropping bombs here?

_"AWACS, this is the Tower! Bombers are targeting the prison camp and runway! We're taking…" _the transmission cut out suddenly.

Well, that answered my question. Rolling inverted and looking up, I saw smoke rising from near the tower. The runway hadn't been hit, thankfully. At least we could still land, for now.

_"Tower, this is Bandog. Say again?" _There was a pregnant pause, with no response. _"Tower? Do you read? Come in?"_

The first MiG had come back for vengeance. My radar warning receiver screamed at me to evade the incoming missile, instinctively I pulled into a sudden sharp dive before rolling ninety degrees and into a bank. Flares erupted from the Typhoon, combined with my sharp maneuvers was enough to shake the missile. That was close, too close.

_"All aircraft…" _For once, our AWACS sounded confused and unsure. _"Engage enemy bombers. Weapons free. I say again, weapons free. Shoot down all incoming bombers, next wave vector zero seven five angels twenty. Four bandits, distance zero nine five miles."_

_"Spare Eleven, roger!"_

_"Bandog, that's the best thing I've ever heard you say."_

_"Shut up, Count! Engage those bombers!"_

I was going nowhere with this fighter on my tail. He'd followed me through my evasive manouvres and was now chasing me down. With my energy regained, I threw the Typhoon into a left hand bank, snap rolling halfway through and sharply swinging right. It was enough to throw the MiG off, at least for half a second which was enough for me to begin to turn the fight in my favour. I looked back just in time to see another plane scream in from seemingly nowhere, gun blazing to tear the Fulcrum's wing to pieces then pull away with a roar. An Eagle with three strikes, Trigger's Eagle.

Damn, that kid was everywhere.

"Spare Fifteen, thanks for the assist." I continued my turn more gently now, waiting until I was pointed towards the incoming bombers. "Spare Thirteen, climbing to engage the bombers."

_"Harling's Murderer again, huh? That's two already." _I could tell Tabloid was impressed. _"Hey Trigger, leave some for the rest of us!"_

My aircraft carried four medium ranged missiles and two short ranged ones. The AIM-120 would be perfect for the bombers, as long as the Erusean escorts didn't stop me from getting into a good position to fire. I passed under the bombers, waiting several seconds before I pulled into an immelmann turn to position myself above the bombers and several miles behind. The radar swiftly got to work, plotting and tracking the three Tu-95s and relaying the information to three of the four AMRAAMS slung beneath my fuselage. Three easy kills, enough to make me an Ace. That was a damn good record if I did say so myself. Good enough for Yellow Squadron.

Okay, so perhaps not the famed Yellows. But maybe the Galm Team needed a new number two.

But alas my three easy kills would not be. Trigger, once more out of nowhere, dived just in front of me to loosen off a pair of missiles before sliding away without waiting to see the results of his work. Both streaked forward and slammed into their targets, port side engines on the lead and left bombers. Almost in slow motion the large aircraft toppled from the skies, flames trailing from their wounded limbs. My Ace would have to wait.

"Spare Thirteen, fox three!" Just a single missile was pushed from the Typhoon, the rocket engine igniting and shooting off after the last bomber. Thankfully this time Trigger didn't jump in to steal my kill, the missile took the Bear's tail clean off, and I watched with amazement as the nose of the bomber pitched up sharply before the starboard wing ripped off and the aircraft tumbled down to join the others. "One kill, Trigger got the other two."

_"Hey Three Strikes! Try using the radio, maybe then we'll actually hear you." _Count's advice however gained no response from Trigger, and I had since lost sight of him once more.

_"This is Spare Fourteen I'm hit! Ejection seat's not working!" _There, out the corner of my eye I saw a sudden burst of flame and a thick black trail of smoke. A second flash followed soon after, Spare Fourteen's aircraft becoming nothing more than an expensive, oversized firework. Dead on the first mission, without a kill to their name. A Golden Duck, I'd heard High Roller use as a term for such pilots.

"_Spare Fourteen's been shot down!"_

_"He atoned for his crimes." _Bandog sneered. "_Two more waves of bombers bearing zero seven zero and zero one five. Three bombers in each, intercept and shoot down all before they drop their payloads."_

Two of the escorts were climbing to meet me from my ten o'clock low, I'd stayed straight and level for far too long. Mentally I assessed my limited options. I could climb or dive away, but that would present an easy target for them to follow. Going right would almost guarantee a simple missile shot for them. There was no way I could intercept the bombers, I had to engage the fighters. "Spare Thirteen, I'm engaging enemy fighters. Someone else will have to get the bombers."

_"Snake Eyes and Trigger, hold the fighters off. Everyone else, follow me."_

_"Who died and made you Squadron Leader, Count?"_

I'd banked left and dived, forcing the two Eruseans into a turning fight where the Typhoon was superior. As the angle between us closed, the lead MiG pulled harder in an effort to bring his nose in front of mine for a gun kill, but the wild burst passed harmlessly behind me. I squeezed my thighs and carried on with the turn, the lead MiG now almost directly above me. I couldn't see the second anywhere.

_"Look at Trigger go, is that seven he's got now? He's almost as good as me."_

_"Stop fangirling over Spare Fifteen and do your job, Spare Two!" _Bandog ordered gruffly.

_"What? Kid's got potential. Stick with me, Trigger. I'll show you how it's done."_

I'd taken full advantage of my speed, energy and manoeuvrability to swing round sharply, and found myself chasing the first Erusean. As I predicted, he dived in an attempt to trade altitude for airspeed, and energy for his evasive maneuvers. It was to no avail however, I was in a perfect position for a missile shot and this time, I could take it.

"Spare Thirteen, fox two!" A single AIM-132 ASRAAM shot from the far left station, streaking at mach three towards the diving Erusean. There was no time for him to fire flares or take action, the missile buried it's nose straight into the port exhaust and blew the rear of the Fulcrum into scrap. The pilot sensibly bailed out immediately, I had to roll and bank to avoid the flaming wreck of the aircraft. "Got another, still one with me."

The second Fulcrum was still nowhere to be seen, which unnerved me. _Where was he?! _I pulled into a climb, eyes flicking from radar to the outside world. No joy, I rolled inverted as I continued to climb, but still the MiG was nowhere to be seen.

_"Bombers at my twelve. Spare Eleven, fox three."_

_"Spare Ten, fox three!"_

I was in a dilemma. The MiG was out there somewhere, but I had no idea where. I could hunt him all day until I ran out of fuel, or I could engage a different target. Erusean fighters still outnumbered us, most of which had chased Count, Tabloid and Spare Ten. Fuck knows where Trigger was, if that hotshot used the damn radio…

_"One bomber down but these fighters are on me again! Spare Thirteen, could use some support!"_

Spare Ten again, the Erusean fighters sure were determined to shoot her down. Thankfully she wasn't too far away, maybe I could reach her in time. Pushing my nose down out of the climb, I banked towards where she was.

_"Spare Eleven, one bomber remaining. Who got the other two?"_

_"Probably Trigger, but who knows. Kid doesn't use his radio to tell us anything." _Tabloid replied.

Spare Ten was directly at my twelve, nothing more than a small outline that I would have missed if it wasn't for my radar and HUD. Two fighters had chased her away from the bomber that passed over my head, I ignored it. I was determined to save Spare Ten.

_But why? You've never met her. You don't even know her callsign, let alone her real name._

Fuck off, Karen.

My last ASRAAM would do the job, but at this range and angle it would likely be evaded. And then, only one of the Eruseans could be targeted. Instead I chose to use two of my three remaining AIM-120s. An almost guaranteed miss, but it would clear Spare Ten's six long enough for her to get out. Maybe.

Radar locked. With a double call of fox three, I released the two missiles and watched as they curved gracefully towards the targets. Both Eruseans broke to evade, one dumped flares which was pretty much useless against the radar guided missiles but I gave him credit for trying.

_"Thanks Spare Thirteen." _The Hornet banked away. _"I owe you one."_

I didn't reply, focused instead on the two fighters I'd engaged. They had reformed but instead of coming back after us were headed away from the fight, running back towards Erusean airspace.

_"Last bomber down." _Bandog announced. _"I think it was Spare Fifteen. Is he still with us? If you wants to be silent all the time, solitary will suit you nice and well!"_

Once more, relief took over as my adrenaline ran out. A second mission survived, and three kills too. Then again, I had the experience of two different training programs and an excellent plane behind me. And with the knowledge of the Osean pilot training combined with combat against my own people, I truly began to see why the Erusean Intelligence had gone to such lengths to infiltrate the Osean Air Defence Force. Somehow these Erusean pilots had taken over most of Usean airspace. With the Osean training standards, who knew what they could accomplish.

Then another thought came to mind, one that almost made me feel lucky to be in Spare Squadron. _That could have been me in one of those planes._

_"Eight kills for Three Strikes?" _I could hear Tabloid's grin. _"Hell, kid must have the devil in his corner."_

_"Maybe we all do. We just destroyed an Erusean bomber squadron. Not bad for a bunch of convicts, eh Bandog?"_

_"You all just got lucky." _Obviously, Bandog didn't share our enthusiasm. "_Mission is complete. All aircraft RTB."_

My good mood lasted right up until my rear wheels touched the ground and once again I saw the guards ready for us on the pan. There was no way I was going to get thrown face first onto the tarmac again, and unbuckled myself before I reached the pan and shut down the aircraft. However, no guard scrambled up to yank me from my seat. They waited patiently at the bottom of the ladder for me to climb down, then one approached me with a strangely apologetic look on his face.

"I'm sorry about this." He shrugged, holding out a set of handcuffs that I'd become so familiar with wearing. "I got orders from McKinsey."

"So he survived." I sighed and held out my arms for the soldier to do his business. The cuffs were cold, thankfully, and I noticed that he refrained from tightening them more than he needed to. Shouting erupted from the next plane, I turned in time to see Count push a soldier away before two more grabbed hold of his shoulders and kicked his legs from under him.

"This is bullshit, Sergeant." The young soldier behind me muttered.

"Like it or not, theyre still convicted criminals." The Sergeant, the man who had cuffed me, replied grimly as he began to lead me towards the briefing rooms on the other side of the hangers. "Even if they did save our asses."

I could guess what was about to become of us. As one could expect, McKinsey was red faced and breathing smoke as we were led into the briefing room and sat in a row. Trigger was next to me, I studied his expression out the corner of my eye. Emotionless, a blank face that gave nothing away. And still no word had escaped his lips. My curiosity rose higher.

He looked down at me and I quickly averted my gaze. He must have seen. I risked a second glance, and looked into his dark eyes. Was there any emotion there? A blank soul like his face? He was unreadable. It was only when McKinsey spoke, well, shouted at us we both broke our speechless staring contest.

"You broke a direct order and opened fire on the Eruseans! I _will not _tolerate this level of insubordination! You will all be sent to solitary!" Spit flew all over the wooden podium. It was impossible to imagine McKinsey smiling, or having a quiet drink with friends. Did he even have friends? Was happiness even an emotion he could feel? Well, at least I had something to think about for another week or two in my little dark cell.

"What are you on about?" Count protested, and would have stood had the guard behind him not held him in his seat. Blood oozed from his nose. "Bandog gave the order!"

"The order didn't come from me, Count!" McKinsey snarled, I thought for a moment he would mount the podium and dive down onto the squadron's number two. "You _are _going to solitary, whether you like it or not! Get them out of my sight!"

The guards complied, pulling us up from the seats and marching us out into the hot midday sun. Even then, I wasn't prepared for the stifling conditions in the solitary cell, the same solitary cell I'd spent my first week in. Almost immediately, as soon as I rolled onto the bed, Karen began to sing. A new song this time, _Black Smoke Rising _by Greta Van Fleet.

This was going to be a long fortnight.


End file.
